


Rave Oscillations

by meetwickedfaith



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: American Lexa in London, Clubbing, DJing, F/F, Indra!Grace Jones, Londoner Clarke, Lots of choice swearing, and sequins, artisinal hipster gays, everyone is a little bit or a lot gay, if that hasn't sold you then we can't be friends, lots of eye fucking across a dancefloor, seriously good tunes, so much dancing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-04 12:10:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12770793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meetwickedfaith/pseuds/meetwickedfaith
Summary: The London club AU in which Clarke is a shithotmess DJ who swears too much and is the sun which everyone orbits around, Lexa is an artistic progeny with a weakness for disco and home baking, and the MVP is Indra's collection of sequined jumpsuits.





	Rave Oscillations

**Author's Note:**

> I finally got around to writing this, after it percolating for oh, about a year. Now I find myself in that fanfic state of being that I promised myself I wouldn't get into - writing more than one story at the same time. It's pretty fun though to do something so different to my other thing, and especially fun to mess about with Clexa and all the rest of those little reprobates in Londontown. Thanks to my DJ wife for being my musical muse, and to Nachos for the usual steadfast support. If your name's not down you're not getting in. Except this time, everyone's on my list. Listen - [Hypnotic Tango](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gHvA0QFDoVY)

 

 

Clarke wakes to the reggae pop sounds of ‘Turn Me On’, and what feels like a pneumatic drill pounding its way into her skull.

 

Usually the song produced a smile and motivated her enough to get out of bed with a spring in her step to boot, but combined with today’s hangover it’s all she can do not to fling her phone at the wall.

 

Groaning, she blindly grabs for the offending alarm and smashes her hand against the screen in a mostly futile attempt to stop it from playing.

 

“Are you fucking kidding me with that crap again, Clarke,” comes the muffled complaint from beside her. “Turn it off before I kill you and travel back in time to kill Kevin Lyttle.”

 

“Trying,” she says grumpily, forcing an eye open to find the snooze button. “And it’s an early naughties classic,” she adds with about as much indignation as she can muster.

 

And then she catches sight of the time.

 

“Bollocking fucknuggets!” she moans, clasping a hand to her eyes. “How did I sleep in so late?”

 

Face still burrowed into the pillow, Niylah responds, “Because you’ve snoozed that thing about ten times already. Hence my murderous threats.”

 

“Luna is going to bloody kill me. I’m supposed to be opening the shop today.”

 

Niylah turns over to face her, smirking through a golden hair curtain. “Better get going then, sugar tits. Oh and say hi to Luna for me,” she adds with an overtly lascivious flourish.

 

Clarke rolls her eyes. “As comfortable as I am with our arrangement, I am not going to help you shag my boss. You can do that all on your own.”

 

Niylah snorts. “Arrangement? You make it sound like I’m your call girl. Or worse, a bunch of flowers.”

 

Clarke laughs and immediately regrets it as a fresh wave of pain hits her head. She throws an arm over her face and groans dramatically.

 

“Let it be known that it was you who insisted on buying that fourth round of Café Patron shots for everyone,” Niylah says.

 

Clarke sits up gingerly, the duvet pooling at her waist. Goosebumps break out immediately over her naked torso.

 

“Do _not_ remind me of last night’s mistakes when I’m feeling like shit on a stick. And why do you never have your sodding heating on? It’s freezing in here.”

 

“It was pretty hot last night.”

 

Clarke doesn’t even have to look down at her bed companion to know she’s waggling her eyebrows. “Are you ever _not_ an outrageous flirt?”

 

“I think you know the answer to that. Resistance is futile. Also re the temperature. I think you’ll find it’s almost May and in no way cold enough for me to be pissing money up the wall by cranking the heat.”

 

Clarke forces herself to stand. “You Canadians are so weird. All these years in rainy, miserable England and you still haven’t acclimatised. Until we’re in full-blown stifling London summer then the heating must remain on. I don’t make the rules.”

 

“Whatever,” Niylah says, dragging her eyes up Clarke’s naked form. “If the temperature I keep my flat at keeps your tits looking like that then I’m not changing a thing.”

 

Clarke glances down at her chest and briefly admires how standing to attention her nipples are.

 

She shakes her head. “Stop distracting me! I need to go.”

 

Niylah smirks and rolls over. “Better run, blondie” comes the muffled voice from the pillow. “I’ll be here, doing this.”

 

Clarke pulls on her clothes at record speed. Showers are for real live adults. At this moment she’s barely keeping it together as a real live anything. Luckily she’d had the foresight before leaving home yesterday to stuff a fresh pair of knickers into her record bag. She has lived and learned too many late night times before to be truly unprepared for this turn of events. So much so that now a toothbrush, mini toothpaste and deodorant stick live permanently in her bag, along with a girl’s most trusted battle weapon; mascara. But aside from a quick swipe of the deodorant all the rest of the hygiene and vanity ablutions will have to wait until she’s at work.

 

She shoves her feet into her Chuck Taylors, has a quick check that half of last night’s makeup isn’t smeared all over her face (and finds out that probably about a third of it is - she can pull off the smokey-eye look with a third, she convinces herself), throws her record bag over her leather bomber, slings her snood on top of everything and runs down the stairs.

 

It’s going to be a long day.

 

Xx

 

 

Clarke sprints along Lordship Lane, cursing all the while under her breath about her stupid decision to come all the way out to Niylah’s place last night.

 

There had been that sliding doors moment, stumbling out of the pub together, when she could easily have just gone home. But noooo. Instead she thought it was a bright idea to haul her arse over to _East Dulwich,_ so her usual twenty minute commute on the Tube was now going to be a sure to be spew-inducing dash for the _bus_ (eww), before changing to the Tube and another sprint at the end. And she’ll be _lucky_ if she gets there in fifty-five minutes.

 

Sex with Niylah is good, but right about now Clarke would trade in last night’s three orgasms ( _it was three, right?_ ) in a fucking heartbeat to be teleported across London.

 

Her bag bashes against her side as she runs, and she simultaneously curses and blesses all the beautiful but very very heavy vinyl inside.

 

 _Why didn’t I just leave it at the shop?_ she groans internally. But she knows why. There’s always the possibility of being asked to play a set at the last minute, and she would kick herself if she missed out because she didn’t have her records. I mean yeah, she always carries a couple of USB sticks packed full of tunes, but it’s not the same. Most of the places she plays at have Technics. And where there are Technics, there should be wax.

 

But back to this _running_.

 

“Fuck my life,” she moans as she glances at her phone and realises that she has precisely one minute to get to the bus stop.

 

She can make it. She just needs to not throw up and she’s laughing.

 

Potentially easier said than done….

 

Xx

 

By the time Clarke gets off the Tube at Oxford Circus she is sweating profusely and has a mouth drier than a camel’s camel-toe. Being trapped on that bus for thirty minutes and then having to run again for the Underground has caused her thirst levels to reach unprecedented arid heights.

 

The only thing keeping her together was her ‘Heavenly Hangover Hail Mary’ Spotify playlist that soothed her aching head via her prized HD25’s. The playlist was carefully crafted for mornings exactly like these, when the only salvation was through good music.

 

 _And a bacon butty and a bottle of Lucozade_ , she thinks to herself, her stomach rumbling at the prospect of salty, buttery, meaty carbs and lifesaving, fizzy electrolytes.

 

She glances at her phone again and sees that she has just enough time to run into Cafe Orkadia.

 

She fires off a text to Bellamy.

 

**11.17: HALP. There in 2 for my usual x**

 

Almost immediately she receives the thumbs-up emoji in reply.

 

When she barrels into Orkadia two minutes and fifteen seconds later, Miller is already standing in front of the counter holding up a paper bag and something that is distinctly not Lucozade.

 

Clarke lands a big kiss on his cheek and pants, “My saviour. My one true love.”

 

“You mean the bacon, aye?” he replies in his thick Orcadian accent and the usual twinkle in his eye.

 

Miller’s from Orkney, a group of islands off the north coast of Scotland, which is a fact that Clarke could not have told anyone until she met him. When he says his name it sounds more like Mull-er and he claims to be the only black, gay Viking in the village (something about Orkney being invaded by Norway back in the dark ages). From what Clarke has heard about the islands, she’s inclined to believe him. Almost every day at the cafe they get asked if its name is a Middle Earth thing. Miller always replies something to the effect of, “There’s no even any fucking trees on Orkney never mind hobbits and elves.” Much to the complete confusion of visiting Tolkien fanboys.   

 

She laughs. “You got me. Chris P. Bacon is the only man for me. At least on days like this.”

 

“Out late, you wee rascal?” he asks, shaking his head playfully.

 

“Not that late. But I was in bed early,” she replies with a wink.

 

“Oh to be young, free and promiscuous again,” Miller says, flicking an imaginary mane where there is only a shaved head.

 

“I heard that!” a deep voice drifts through from the kitchen.

 

Clarke and Miller give each other a conspiratorial look.

 

“Thanks for the scran, Bellamy!” she yells back.

 

Taking the bag from Miller, she looks warily at the drink he’s proffering.

 

“That’s not Lucozade,” she says, stating the obvious.

 

“Ten points for DJ Griffin!” Miller sings. “It’s our new home-brewed kombucha. Bellini’s been trying out some new flavours. This one is ginger and turmeric.”

 

Clarke just stares at him. “Are you fucking kidding me.”

 

“Ah stop yer whinging and get it down you,” he says, shoving the bag and drink into her hands. “That there is the best bloody hangover cure you’ll get. Stuff the Lucozade.”

 

“I feel like you’ve betrayed your Scottish roots by not giving me an Irn Bru right now, Nathan,” she throws back over her shoulder as she walks away. “Instead, you’re forcing your husband’s _health foods_ on me. Monster!”

 

“Your guts will thank me later!” he calls back, loud enough that all the other people in the cafe turn to look at her.

 

She grits her teeth as she feels herself go bright red.

 

“Fucking artisanal hipster gays,” she mutters, and legs it out the door.

 

Xx

 

 

Phonica Records is tucked away on a quiet side street in an otherwise bustling Soho. It sits rather unceremoniously between a betting shop and a multi-storey car park, but also happens to be within thirty seconds of Clarke’s favourite pub in London, and the best Vietnamese cafe outside of Hanoi.

 

It is Clarke’s happy place. Every single time she walks through those doors she thanks all the gods of music that this is her day job. What more could a DJ want than to be surrounded by all that vinyl and get to hang out with some of the world’s biggest names in underground dance music. She’s got regulars like Dixon, Heidi and Caribou on her speed dial, and loves nothing more than digging for the best new tracks for all her customers. Luna likes to keep things constantly fresh and diverse, so the shop has everything from rare soul 7”s to Italo disco to big room house and driving techno.

 

Phonica just has a special magic to it and its reputation is legendary the world over.

 

And Clarke is particularly pleased on a day like this, with a hangover like this, that it doesn’t open its doors until 11.30am. Sweet, sweet mercy.

 

She checks her phone again. 11.27. Three minutes to spare. Unbelievable.

 

It will most definitely take her more than those three minutes to pull up the shutters, turn the alarm off and get everything switched on, but these are minor details when she’s mentally awarding herself a gold medal for actually just getting here on time.

 

She sees Monty leaning against the shop front with his BMX and his ever present jumper hood barely containing his jet-black mushroom bouffant of a hairstyle.

 

“I am _so_ glad to see your cute little face this morning, ma petit Montgomery de Vert.”  

 

He does that shy little smile that she loves so much. “Hi, Clarke.”

 

“Fuck me sideways, you have Lucozade.” Her eyes light up as she spots the orange bottle tucked into his jacket pocket.

 

“Do you need me to do a supplies run?”

 

Clarke scrunches her nose up and sighs. “Ugh, no. If I don’t drink this disgustingly healthy beverage then Bellamy will somehow just know. And then he might actually make me pay my tab.”

 

She pulls a set of keys from her bag and bends to unlock the door shutter.

 

“Just us this morning?” she asks, pushing into the dark shop.

 

Monty wheels his bike in behind her. “Until two. Then Murphy and Harper are in.”

 

Slinging her bag behind the counter and switching tills on as she goes, she asks, “Made a move yet?”

 

Exiting from the back where he deposited his BMX and heading to the turntables lining the side wall he responds quick as anything, “Murphy’s a total fox in that sociopathic kind of way, but I don’t think I’m his type.”

 

Clarke lets out a bark of laughter. She loves working with Monty, especially when it’s just the two of them in the morning. Most people don’t take the time to scratch beneath his seemingly shy facade. But when you do, it’s so worth it. He’s warm and fucking hysterical in a really sarcastic way, and he probably has more in-depth knowledge about obscure electronica than anyone Clarke has ever met.

 

“You could be right,” she responds, taking her first sip of the kombucha and expecting to grimace but actually, annoyingly, thinks it’s delicious. “I may have been referring to the blonder, more vaginal of our coworkers though.”

 

He throws a perturbed look over his shoulder as he goes from deck to deck, switching them all on and checking the needles. “Vaginal?”

 

“It’s early. I’m not at my best yet,” she responds with a shrug.

 

“Clarke, it’s almost noon.”

 

“Exactly. It’s barely past day break. Now let’s get some quality tunes on, Montevideo, and get this show on the road.”

 

She shoves some of the bacon butty into her mouth and smiles around it. The hangover is already easing up and she just knows it’s going to be a good day.

 

Xx

 

 

An hour later the disco-infused beats of ‘He Is The Voice I Hear’ from The Black Madonna (Clarke got to meet her last week and nearly died from embarrassment at how much of a giant tit she made of herself - big fan - huge) are pumping out of the speakers and Clarke is writing up recommendations to go in vinyl sleeves on the Staff Picks wall. Friday is always a big day for them as so many DJ’s are on the prowl for new tracks to play out at gigs that weekend.

 

Monty is deep in conversation with a customer about the merits of early Japanese glitchdub over ambient nu-wave dronecore. Clarke thanks her lucky stars she doesn’t have to deal with _that_ one.

 

“So there’s my dirty stop-out flatmate!” comes a really loud and obnoxious voice attached to a very small woman coming in off the street.

 

Clarke sends daggers Octavia’s way and casts her eyes guiltily around the shop to see if anyone heard.

 

At the moment it’s just geeky trainspotter guys, most with headphones on, so she’s not too bothered about her flatmate’s wildly inappropriate greeting.

 

Octavia does that funny little stomp walk that Clarke loves to watch, all the way up to the counter. Clarke always thinks it makes her look like a threatening pixie in a really foul mood. Which is pretty much what she is. Except this pixie will kick your arse and make you run home to your mummy. Octavia Blake is just one of those effortlessly _cool_ people. But she’s also sound as a pound and her and Bell are basically family.

 

Her long dark hair is slicked back into a high ponytail and her gold hoop earrings are big enough to put a fist through. She always _always_ rocks the wing-tip liquid eyeliner look (her homage to Amy Winehouse - she never really got over her death and still cries about once a week when listening to Back to Black) and today she’s gone all out on the rude-girl fashion vibes - burgundy Fred Perry poloshirt, braces, leopard skin belt, high-waisted miniskirt and oxblood tassel loafers.

 

“I would give you a row for slut-shaming me in my place of work but then you come in here lookin’ like _dat._ Ooh girl, you is fine, innit.”

 

Octavia grimaces. “Spiffin, what have we said about you trying to speak the commoners tongue?”

 

She sighs. “That it makes me sound like a prick.” And the nickname of course just adds to that.

 

“Embrace those middle class Muswell Hill roots, babes!” Octavia fires back, tossing her ponytail. “We’d all kill for that husky sex-bomb voice.”

 

“You’re just smug because Adele took your accent to the world stage,” Clarke replies, lifting a pile of records into a basket on the counter.

 

Octavia and Adele were in the same year together in school and sound almost identical.

 

“Damn right, sweetcheeks. Tottenham respre _sent_ .” She emphasises the ‘sent’ and flicks her fingers in some sort of whipping action that only she could pull off. “And yes, my threads got to stay fresh when I’m pounding the streets, _grafting_ for us. We can’t all pull on a pair of jeans and a shitty band t-shirt and look as drop dead bangin’ as you all the time.”

 

Clarke smiles. Octavia is a grafter, that’s for sure. As co-founder of Skaikru Arts Collective and one of the best promoters for underground dance culture in the city, she works _hard_ to keep all those balls in the air. Even though she has a team of bookers, agents, poster boys and flyer kids under her, she’s out there every day, drumming up a frenzied energy about her upcoming events and making connections.

 

“Anyway, you’re totally killing my whole announcement buzz. I have BIG NEWS.”

 

It is now that Clarke actually notices the difference in her usually fairly stoic friend. Her sharp cheekbones have a flush on them and she’s been practically hopping on one foot since she came into the shop.

 

Clarke’s hand flies to her mouth and she takes in a sharp breath.

 

“HEDA?” she asks, mumbled against her palm.

 

A wide smile breaks out on Octavia’s face, lighting the whole thing up like Christmas.

 

She begins nodding frantically and her smile gets even bigger. “HEDA!” she shouts back, and Clarke doesn’t even care that it’s loud and that she can see multiple geeky guys turning to look at them with barely contained disdain.

 

She lets out a scream and begins jumping up and down. “Oh my twatting fuck!! Indra went for it?”  

 

“She went for it alright. The whole bloody clit and caboodle. She loved everything I had to say - like she was really _hyped_ , Spiff. We was vibing and everything.” Octavia gets a dreamy look in her eye that Clarke has rarely seen before. “She even knew who I was. Said she’d admired what I’ve been doing for a while now.”

 

“Jesus, O,” breathes Clarke, running a hand through her hair. “This is….bloody huge.”

 

“Massive, hon,” Octavia agrees. “And it’s _ours_ . There would be no Hedanism without you, Ms Resident DJ Clarke Griffin. And I mean that literally seeing as she asked about you being on board before I was even halfway through the proposal. We are going to blow that place _up_!”  

 

Clarke can’t quite take it all in. They’ve been building the proposal for months - in some ways maybe years. All the club nights and parties and venue residencies they had masterminded up until this point would all pale in comparison to this. HEDA is **_the_ ** multi-disciplinary arts space and club venue in London, and it’s owned by Indra. There are few true A-listers in the world that have gotten away with going by one name; Madonna, Cher, Prince, the aforementioned Adele….and Indra. She holds a place amongst the greats, the pioneers, the original misfits, and the forever evolving chameleons. On one hand a product of a bygone era, and on the other hand, constantly reinventing herself. Clarke is forever getting pissed off at the overuse of the term ‘icon’, but if it were ever appropriate to use, it would be for HEDA’s owner. Clarke had seen the pictures of her as a 21 year old in Studio54, strutting her stuff beside her then protegé RuPaul and her mentor Grace Jones. That trio had dominated the early 80’s New York scene and had of course gone on to dominate in their respective areas on the global stage. Clarke could barely believe Octavia had even been in a room with the woman never mind had her agree to hosting their monthly club night.

 

“When’s our launch?” she asks, lifting the counter lid and motioning for Octavia to come through to the back.

 

“The May Bank Holiday Weekend.” Octavia flops down onto one of the couches and puts her feet up on the coffee table. “I could murder a cuppa, please.”

 

Clarke turns from where she’s already filling the kettle. “That’s only five weeks away! Does Indra really think we’ll be ready by then?”

 

“She wants to capitalise on the bank holiday buzz. You know how mental people go. And in terms of being ready, well she wants to put someone in charge of coordinating everything from their side. Her protegé.” Octavia does air quotes for this.

 

Clarke raises one of her perfectly manicured eyebrows. “Who the fuck could live up to that title?”

 

“HEDA’s new Creative Director, some American bird. Her name is Lexa Woods. And let me tell you Clarkey, being able to judge down to an exact bloody tee who you will fancy, I can say with 100% accuracy that, ‘you woulds’.”

 

Clarke pops a couple of teabags into the teapot and leans against the counter, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Now you have my attention. Tell me more immediately.”

 

Octavia crosses her arms, frowning at her. “Oh so now I have your attention. Not when I was telling you about what might turn out to be the biggest turn of events in our careers to date? Tut tut, Spiff. Always thinking with your fanny.”

 

Clarke throws a tea towel at her friend, but it falls way short. “Fuck off. You were the one who brought it up. Forget about that. Fill me in on more of the details from your meeting with Indra. We have so much to plan!”

 

Xx

 

“Don’t you think calling it Hedanism is a bit on the nose?” Murphy asks, setting his now empty pint glass down on the table.

 

Clarke rolls her eyes. “That’s the name! It’s always been the name. And I’m thinking if _Indra_ went for it, then it’s probably a fucking winner.”

 

He smirks. “Fair point.”

 

“I think it’s brilliant!” Harper chips in cheerily. “I mean, it really captures what you and O want the night to be about.”

 

“People getting mad for it?” Murphy asks.

 

Harper shoves his arm. “No, you twat. All that stuff Clarke was telling us about before. About it being a safe space for the queer disco dancers and their allies to come together and go a bit mental. No boundaries, no rules.”

 

Murphy nods. “People getting mad for it,” he deadpans.

 

They all laugh.

 

“What _is_ the music policy going to be, Clarke?” asks Monty a moment later, ever the evangelist.

 

“Seeing as I had forty five minutes of you chewing my ear off earlier with the answer to that, I shall excuse myself to the gents,” interrupts Murphy, standing.

 

“Don’t pretend like you’re not hanging on every word,” Clarke retorts, lifting her empty glass. “And great timing, Johnboy. Your round.”

 

“I thought going out with the gaffer on the lash meant they might actually buy some of them,” he mutters as he walks off.

 

“We’re celebrating _me_ , you tight-arse!” Clarke shouts after him.

 

They had insisted on taking her for drinks to celebrate her big news, which she had definitely not drawn breath from chewing their ears off about all day. So now they’re two pints in down at The Two-Headed Stag where it’s a typical Friday night, the pub rammed with the after work crowd. Luckily the bar staff keep one of the big tables in the window almost permanently reserved for Phonica.

 

Just as Clarke turns back to the others, Bellamy, Miller and Raven come crashing through the door singing what _could_ be Bronski Beat’s Smalltown Boy very loudly and very badly. Luckily the noise from the pub is so loud that their racket is mostly drowned out.

 

“Awrite me old muckers!” Raven greets them with, swaying unsteadily and looking every inch the oxymoron that she is. _More moron right now than oxy_ , Clarke thinks lovingly, taking in her friend’s three sheets to the wind appearance. Even with the overtly plastered swaying, she still manages to look like the hot professor from everyone’s wildest fantasies, which is essentially what she is. Or she will be in the future. She looks especially smart today, all houndstooth blazer complete with academic elbow patches, matching capri trousers and white blouse with black pussybow tie.

 

“Hello, hotstuff,” Clarke says smiling and standing. Reaching over the table she wraps her arms around the other girl before pulling away and asking, “I take it your big meeting went well then?”

 

Raven is doing her PhD in Astrophysics at Imperial College London. She went on a full scholarship to Cambridge and came out with first class honours, despite growing up on the wild streets of Camden. Raven Reyes is a bonafide genius.

 

“Smashed it!” she responds, landing a sloppy kiss on Clarke’s cheek. “Research grant here I come.”

 

“That’s wicked, Rave. Knew you would wow them.” Clarke looks to the boys, raising an eyebrow at them. “Have you been a bad influence?”

 

Miller hiccups. Bellamy actually giggles. “We just went for celebratory sushi,” he replies, all puppy dog eyes.

 

“And saké!” Raven practically shouts, always a much too enthusiastic drunk.

 

“Who could tell?” Clarke says sarcastically.

 

Murphy appears out of the ether holding his phone.

 

“Thought you were getting the drinks in, Muffy?” Clarke asks.

 

“I was and then I saw the Whatsapp message from ‘Tave. The third Stooge wants us all back at the warehouse to ‘celebrate the triumphs of the fittest trio in London town’,” he replies with air quotes for the last part, scowling like he does every time Clarke calls him that.

 

“The Tave to my Rave!” Raven exclaims, slinging an arm over Murphy’s shoulder, which only turns his scowl into a grimace. “Party at our gaff?”

 

“Apparently being mates with you lot means I now have to fraternise with Shoreditch Cunts,” he says, typing something on his phone, no doubt a reply to Octavia.

 

“That would have more impact if you didn’t have a man-bun,” Clarke says, pulling on her bomber jacket. “Back to the Wonky Penthouse it is then. We can pick up a carry-out on the way.”

 

A cheer goes up between everyone, except Manbun, who probably harrumphs as Raven drags him towards the door. Clarke knows John so well though. He’s as happy as they all are.

 

The seven of them file out of the pub, the Phonica contingent decidedly more sober than the newcomers, but Clarke knows it won’t be long before they catch up. Knowing Octavia she’ll have shots of Patron and some beautiful cocktail all lined up for their arrival. She never stops being the world’s best party planner.   

 

The hangover from this morning is but a distant memory and Clarke is ready to party with her friends. She’s about to be heading up the hottest club night in the city and she feels like she might as well be walking on cloud nine. Only for a moment does she have a flutter of apprehension when she remembers what happened last month when she threw a party with O and Raven at their warehouse flat. What was meant to be a civilised affair (bahaha) turned into a two day bender that had Bell and Miller not opening Orkadia the next day, Clarke having to call in every favour on the planet to get someone to cover her shift at Phonica, and Raven almost getting arrested for giving backchat to the police who inevitably turned up at their door to politely ask that at least some of the sixty plus people could possibly fuck off home now that they’d all been there for eighteen hours.

 

But as soon as the thought is there, it’s gone again. Time to celebrate.

 

* * *

 

“Yes, Mom, I’m eating enough vegetables. Why do you insist on treating me like a child? I’m twenty-nine and I’ve lived on another continent for almost seven years. If I was going to die of scurvy I think it might have happened already,” Lexa replies impatiently, shifting the bulky old house phone where it’s balanced on her shoulder.

 

She absolutely adores her mother, she really does. She’s talented and loving and generally so laid back about just about everything - _bohemian_ is how people describe her to the point of it getting boring - but there’s just something about damn vegetables that she can’t let up about.

 

“How’s Nana?” Lexa asks, trying to steer the conversation away from greens. “Mmhmm. Oh that’s good. Well tell her the house is coming along just famously as she would say. I’ve finally finished the re-plastering in the lounge and I’m about halfway through fitting the cornicing. It looks fabulous.”

 

Lexa’s Nana went to live with her mom in Boston a couple of years ago, due to ailing health and the desire to be near to her daughter again after so many years apart. Lexa’s mom had gone to the States almost thirty years ago pursuing her art and a man who then turned out to be Lexa’s father.

 

When Lexa was offered a place in Central Saint Martins Visual Arts programme seven years ago, she jumped at the chance. Not only had it meant getting to live close to her beloved Nana, it also meant starting an exciting new life in the UK. Exactly what she needed back then as an itchy-footed twenty-two year old. Then when her Nana decided it was time to head to the other side of the pond, she had all but insisted that Lexa move into her house, on the one condition that she renovate the old place. As much as Lexa had been sad to see her go, the offer was a dream come true.

 

The old terraced mews house dates back to the 1800’s and sits on a cobbled lane in Fitzrovia, an area so rich in artistic history that Lexa feels inspired just existing there.

 

She hears the doorbell go.

 

“Mom,” she says, interrupting her from a detailed description of her recent endeavours into pottery (maybe? Lexa had kind of zoned out when she’d started on water to clay ratios). “That’s Lincoln. I need to go. Yes, that nice boy with the impressive physique. Love you too. Tell Nana I’ll Skype her next week to show her the progress. Yes, mother. Ok ok! Bye.” She flings the phone down.

 

Oh how she loves her mom, but what a fucking chore talking on the phone can sometimes be. Such are the trials of living abroad.

 

Opening the door she sees Lincoln standing there in all of that impressive physique glory. His dark eyes sparkle in the morning sun as he grins at her.

 

“Well if it isn’t my all time favourite hunk a chunk,” she says, beaming at him.

 

“Hey, less of the chunk, pet. After the past ten months I’ve never been so lean,” he replies with feigned indignation, the Geordie lilt Lexa loves so much not as strong as usual but definitely still there.

 

“I see that,” she says, winking. “Now bring that gorgeous bod in for a hug.”

 

He steps inside and they wrap their arms around each other in the sort of tight squeeze that only close friends have.

 

“I missed you so much,” Lexa sighs into his big muscley chest. “I didn’t have anyone good to go dancing with.”

 

Lincoln is a professional dancer and seems to have the ability to flit between any genre he chooses. In the past he’s been part of a ballet troupe, worked on Westend and Broadway productions, taught useless celebrities on Dancing with the Stars, and appeared in too many music videos to count. For the past almost year he’s been in the employ of Gaga herself as one of her lead dancers on a monster world tour. Lexa has seen him once in that whole time, when six months ago she flew out to New York to watch him perform at Madison Square Gardens. But it barely registers as actually spending time with him when they only had about twenty minutes of face to face time backstage before the show. The entire Haus of Gaga circus then flew onto the next location as soon as the concert finished.

 

“Somehow I doubt that. I can only imagine the trail of broken hearts you’ve left all over London since I’ve been gone.”

 

Lexa pulls away and narrows her eyes at him. “Romantic dalliances are hardly a suitable substitute for you and me in a sweaty club for eight hours straight. And besides, my new job has kept me far too busy for much of anything in the way of socialising lately.”

 

“Well that just sounds sad,” Lincoln says, bumping her shoulder lightly.

 

“It would be if HEDA wasn’t the best place on earth to work.”

 

“That good, eh? I need the _full_ low-down on Indra. When Gaga heard my mate was working with her she just about had some sort of creative-envy meltdown.”

 

“I’m sure my lips need to be sealed on that front as much as yours do. The diva gag clause,” she replies with a smirk, moving up the few steps into the house proper. “Fancy a cuppa before we get started?”

 

Lincoln rubs his hands together. “Now you’re talking. I’ve missed you acting all English in England.”

 

She laughs. “My Nana is so proud.”

 

“Woah, Lex. You’ve done so much with the place!” he exclaims, looking around the large sitting room as they move towards the kitchen in the back.

 

“Still so much to do, but it’s definitely coming along.”

 

She busies herself filling the kettle and setting out the nice Royal Doulton teapot and mugs.

 

Apart from the roof terrace, the kitchen is probably her favourite part of the house, even though it’s so far been untouched by her renovations. That’s probably why she likes it so much. It holds so much nostalgia and fond childhood memories of watching her Nana beating flour and eggs and butter in the big heavy bowl to make Victoria sponge, or standing on the little wooden stool beside the stove as her Nana let her pour pancake mix onto the old griddle pan to make animal shapes. It is completely old fashioned and her Nana actually wants her to rip everything out and modernise, but Lexa has found herself reluctant. She adores the big country style table and the old fashioned units and the flagstone floor. Being in this kitchen feels like being transported into a period piece and she just loves everything about it.

 

Lincoln maneuvers his (leaner than usual but still) bulky body into a chair in that graceful way that only dancers can. “So what’s cooking at HEDA then? What creative wizardry are you masterminding right now?”

 

She drops a couple of teabags into the pot and turns to face him. “The schedule is just jam-packed; it's _intense_ .” She starts listing things off on her fingers. “We’ve got an exhibition opening next weekend on the history of grime, a painter in residence arriving on loan tomorrow from the MoMA, two Glasgow School of Art students doing their placements, a seemingly neverending stream of street artists causing me no _end_ of hassle in their studio space - who FYI may or may not be with Banksy, The XX playing a two thousand person capacity gig in our outdoor space which is also being recorded for the BBC on the eighteenth, and to top it all off Indra just called me in for a meeting yesterday and says I have to prioritise a new club night she’s booked that she wants to become our monthly headliner and they have all kinds of pyrotechnics and design requirements.”

 

Lincoln lets out a puff of air and runs a hand over his shaved head. “Christ. I’m exhausted just listening to that.”

 

“I’m exhausted _all the time_. And I love it,” Lexa replies, grinning and setting a plate of still warm scones fresh from the oven on the table.  

 

They stay like that, drinking tea, scoffing scones with butter and jam and catching up for the next hour, and Lexa feels all warm and fuzzy inside to have him back. Although with Lincoln you can never be sure how long it will last.

 

She glances up at the clock. “The morning’s racing away. Shall we get started?”

 

“Let’s do it. I’ll just go change into my painting gear.”

 

He emerges into the upper landing where Lexa is pulling dust sheets out of a rubbish bag. She looks up at him.

 

“As I live and breathe, Mr Beaumont. No wonder you have all the girls _and_ the boys throwing themselves at your feet. Must you have to look like a Greek statue _all_ the time?”

 

“What?” he asks, looking down at his dungarees and tugging at them self-consciously over his otherwise bare torso. “I borrowed these from my mam’s boyfriend. All my regular clothes are still in storage and_”

 

“They’re all designer and you don’t want to get paint on them?” she interrupts, knowing him all too well.

 

“Something like that,” he responds with a genuinely shy smile.

 

It is almost criminal how good looking Lincoln is, but by far the most endearing thing about him is that he seems to forget this fact on a regular basis. Lexa is gayer than an Ellen Page/Emma Portner cringe-worthy couple's dance routine on Instagram, but even she can find herself ogling him when his pecs and six pack are on display in all their dark, rippling perfection. She glances down at her own go-to DIY outfit and almost laughs at the thought that her paint splattered faded jeans and ratty t-shirt are inadequate in comparison.   

 

“So we’re working on the master bedroom today?”

 

“Mmhm,” she says around the hair bobble that’s clamped between her lips. She sweeps her long brown hair upwards into a messy bun and fastens the bobble around it. “I’m really excited about the colour I chose. I was actually inspired by one of the spaces at work.”

 

He grabs the sheets and they make their way into the bedroom.

 

“That reminds me,” he says, throwing a sheet over the bed that’s already been pushed to the centre of the room. “What’s the club night you’re launching?”

 

“They’re calling it Hedanism. Indra only gave me the bare bones of it as she said she’d prefer I meet with the promoters to work out all the angles.”

 

“Who are the promoters? I might know them.”

 

Lexa makes her way up the ladder with a roll of masking tape to start the cutting in. “They call themselves Skaikru Arts Collective. I’m not sure how Anya will feel about that. Or maybe she already knows.”

 

“You’re doing a night with Octavia Blake?” Lincoln asks in such a tone that it makes Lexa stop and turn to look down at him.

 

She raises an eyebrow at him. “Yes. And her partner. Clarke Griffin I think? You know Octavia?”

 

He lets out a long low whistle. “Octavia _and_ Clarke. Bloody hell, Lexa. Now that’s a blast from the past.”

 

Now her interest is really piqued. “Spill,” she says, one hand on her hip and one on the ladder.

 

“Umm, well you might say I know one...intimately, wanted to know the other one very intimately, but that one was put off because of the original intimacy with the first one. And there may have also been some very brief intimacy involving a brother.”

 

Lexa frowns in confusion. “Wait, what?”

 

He sighs. “Years ago, Clarke and I would cross paths quite often out on the scene. She was just starting off in her DJing career and I was still dancing in clubs. We had a very brief fling but were really just good friends and so decided to stop, you know_”

 

“Fucking?” Lexa offers.

 

He grimaces slightly. Such a delicate flower. “Yes. But then she introduced me to her best friend, Octavia, and I was a goner.”

 

Something dawns on Lexa. “No way! Octavia is the girl you always talk about who got away?”

 

He nods. “My poor broken baby boy heart. She wouldn’t even consider letting me take her out. Said she didn’t ‘double-dip with mates’,” he air quotes.

 

“And where does the brother come into this?”

 

“That’s where I really cocked it up, no pun intended. We were all in G.A.Y. one night and Octavia was actually warming up to me a bit. Then her brother arrived and it turns out I’d got off with him about a year before.”

 

He scuffs his trainers on the floor and looks suitably sheepish.

 

“Lincoln!” Lexa exclaims, absolutely loving the very uncharacteristic lascivious tale from her usually reserved friend. “You scoundrel.”

 

“It was only a snog!” he responds, giving her the puppy dog eyes. “But that was the final nail in the coffin for Octavia. She told me there was no way in hell she’d ever go there when her best mate and brother already had.”

 

“Ouch,” Lexa says.

 

“Yup.”

 

She can’t help but laugh. The story coupled with him standing there in those stupid dungarees looking like a twelve year old who lost their lunch money is just too much.

 

“Sorry,” she says at his pained expression. “I’m just not used to you having love triangle...or square? dramas. It’s not like you.”

 

He shakes his head and starts to lay out the rollers and brushes. “It’s not. That’s why in all the time you’ve known me I’ve never repeated it.”

 

Lexa begins to peel off tape from the roll before reaching up to apply it to the ceiling trim. “So when I meet with Octavia on Tuesday it might be best if I don’t mention you?”

 

He chuckles. “It was a long time ago. Hopefully my name isn’t still blacklisted. But you might want to watch out for her. She’s a fearsome little person.”

 

“Little?”

 

“Don’t let her stature fool you. I’ve seen her eat people for breakfast.”

 

Lexa mulls this over for a moment whilst flattening a stretch of tape down. “You’re not the first person to tell me that. Her reputation is pretty widely known in London. But you also know I’m no pushover myself. I can hold my own.”

 

“Oh I know, Commander. You didn’t get that nickname for pussyfooting around and I’d bet that’s one of the reasons Indra hired you,” he says, moving to slide the ladder over for her as she steps down from it.

 

“What about this Clarke? Should I watch out for her too?” she asks, climbing the ladder again.

 

She hears him letting out a little huff of laughter and turns to look down at him expectantly.

 

Carefully pouring paint into a tray he says, “Well, not in the same way as Octavia. Clarke is like the ying to her yang and is so laid back she’s practically Brad Pitt in True Romance.”

 

Lexa frowns, trying to conjure up that very specific analogy. “So what’s there to look out for then?”

 

Lincoln laughs again. “She’s a bombshell. And almost everyone who’s in her orbit falls in love with her at some point.”

 

He holds up his hands in capitulation at the look she gives him. “All I’m saying is, she has an effect on people. There’s no one else quite like Clarke.”

 

“I’m pretty sure I can manage to resist what I now have in my mind as her stoner saucepot charms, Lincoln. Besides, I don’t mix business with pleasure and maybe _I_ don’t want to double dip with friends either,” she says giving him a pointed look.

 

He just smiles and shakes his head. “Okaaaay. But trust me, pet. You’re going to like those charms.”

 

She rolls her eyes and they carry on working in silence for a while, rolling the first coat of paint on.

 

“So she’s into girls as well as guys then?”

 

Lincoln throws his head back and howls with laughter. “The charms are working already.”

 

Lexa makes a mental note to do a little social media research later. You know, for professional reasons...

 

* * *

 

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I love feedback like Clarke loves Café Patron. If you'd prefer Tumblr bants then come and have a blether to me over there about tunes or British swear words or whatever you fancy - [weasal](http://weasal.tumblr.com/)


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